


Unraveled

by flecksofpoppy, theisles



Series: Beyond Walls [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Hair Braiding, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Intimacy, M/M, OT3, Office Blow Jobs, marmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theisles/pseuds/theisles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin indulges Marco; Marco asks the important questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unraveled

**Author's Note:**

> Second installment of JAM OT3 canon divergence-verse, where Marco, Jean, and Armin are part of the Survey Corp. with a long shared history, and start to explore a different type of relationship.
> 
> Feedback and concrit welcomed!

Armin still doesn’t know how he got himself into this.

“What about a fishtail? I know how to do that, too!”

At the same time, he’s not sure which aspect of this moment is more laughable: his own consent, or Marco’s enthusiasm.

He clears his throat, trying to fight down the heat that he can feel steadily creeping into his cheeks. “You can do whatever you want,” he replies calmly, leaning closer to the battle map spread out across his desk, “I’m going to be here for a while.”

He finally turns his head to raise an eyebrow at Marco, whose delight has obviously not been dampened by Armin’s less than excited response as he smiles with raised eyebrows, boyish freckles bunching up.

He could charm a horse out of its saddle.

“Are you still sure it’s okay?” he asks again, searching Armin’s face with a keen look. He bites his lip, tilting his head questioningly. “Because—”

“Just don’t do pigtails,” Armin quips, but he smiles a little as he turns back around to let Marco have his way with the long blond hair.

It all started when he, Jean, and Marco had participated in an experiment that first fateful afternoon—an experience he still thinks about _far_ too often, at the most inappropriate of times. (Example: Military Police officials without any concept of actual battle strategies droning on for hours in a stuffy meeting room.)

It was as simple as Marco loosening his hair from the topknot he normally kept it tied in, and that was that. It was also the first time Armin had allowed it.

The truth is that Armin actually enjoys having his hair touched, but he simply doesn’t let anyone near it. It’s too intimate, too much of a reminder of who he used to be. Although Armin’s not one for self-loathing, he guards his inner thoughts carefully now.

He starts as he’s jolted out of his thoughts, completely distracted from his work now, as he feels Marco’s nose buried in his hair.

“Smells good,” Marco murmurs breathlessly, inhaling deeply a few times, before stroking his fingers through the long strands in a way that feels almost reverent. “Silky.”

Of all the things Armin may have ever expected from Marco Bodt, having a hair kink was not on the list.

“Do all of your sisters have long hair by any chance?” Armin asks, feeling a little breathless himself.

Marco hums warmly, a laugh lurking in his throat, and he draws back to gather Armin’s long hair between his fingers.

“Yup,” he replies simply, smoothing down the straight fall of hair that’s down to Armin’s shoulder blades at this point. “I’m a talented, um...” Marco stops the motions of his hands, searching for the word, “braider. Not that... I like braiding my sisters' hair, the same way I like braiding yours.”

Armin laughs lightly, hoping the unexpected and somewhat embarrassing effect that Marco’s deft touch is having on him isn’t obvious, and just shrugs. “I never learned to braid it. I just wore it long because that’s how my grandfather and father wore theirs, until it got too long.”

“I remember,” Marco replies suddenly, his voice strangely wistful. “It was when you were seventeen. It was at your shoulder blades, and you started tying it back.”

Armin’s eyebrows are raised now, but since he’s facing forward and Marco can’t see his face, he lets the shock show.

“And then,” Marco continues unexpectedly, separating the hair into three strands slowly, “when you were eighteen, you cut it.” He laughs, and hesitates; Armin waits to hear what he’s holding back.

“That was a sad day,” he remarks, obviously trying to make it light and comedic, but it just sounds legitimately disappointed. “Um,” he continues quickly, clearing his throat, “I mean, because...”

“You really like hair,” Armin deadpans, turning his head slowly to avoid interrupting the progress of whatever braid Marco’s about to unleash on him. To his surprise, the expression on Marco’s face is downright timid, almost like a startled deer unwittingly caught in an open thicket.

Marco just bites his lip, and Armin immediately smiles at him reassuringly.

“You look like you’re fifteen when you smile like that,” Marco blurts out, his eyes drawn to Armin’s mouth, as if intrigued.

“You’ll _always_ look like you’re fifteen with those freckles,” Armin retorts curtly, but there’s laughter in his voice. He lets the warmth shine through for Marco’s benefit.

“Hey!” Marco practically cries. “I know both you _and_ Jean like the freckles!”

Armin snorts, amused at Marco’s assumption his freckles are that alluring (although he’s mostly right), and turns back around to let Marco continue fiddling with his hair.

“Jean likes the freckles more than me,” he replies wryly after a moment.

“I like your hair more than Jean does,” is the immediate comeback.

“Well, Jean doesn’t get to touch my hair,” Armin banters in return, not realizing the full gravity of his words until he says them.

Marco is quiet for a moment, and his hands still. There’s suddenly something about the silence between friendly barbs that’s heavy with significance, and then Marco leans forward.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into Armin’s ear, and Armin shivers as he feels a soft kiss pressed against his neck, slightly to the back along his hair line. “Besides,” he continues softly, “I think Jean is more interested in your praise than your hair.”

Armin makes a meditative sound, knowing that Marco is right, before his breath catches as he feels another kiss pressed against that same place. “But what I’m still trying to figure out,” Marco continues in that same, dulcet tone, “is what you’re interested in.”

Armin grunts, deciding to give Marco a hard time. “Maps,” he states bluntly.

Marco laughs quietly—a deep, masculine in his throat that makes Armin swallow hard—and replies simply, “I know that’s not true.”

But he doesn’t push it, and presses a few more kisses against that sensitive spot, until drawing away.

Armin sighs, feeling languid despite Marco’s strangely gentle invasiveness, and offers up a little shrug. He replies contritely after a few beats of silence, “Do the fishtail. Maybe I’ll even wear it outside this room.”

Marco hums warmly, and Armin knows he’s smiling without even needing to turn around.

“You should,” he replies, his voice almost a slur now as he draws back to refocus his attention on Armin’s hair. “I’m pretty talented—just ask my sisters.”

Armin groans a little with a half-hearted roll of his eyes at being compared to the army of sisters he knows Marco has back in Jinae, but he laughs a little. 

He fights the urge of his eyes to slip shut as Marco starts to work on the braid, gentle, deft fingers combing through the parted sections of hair as he starts to weave them together. Armin idly fixes his gaze on the map he’s laid out, no longer interested in scrutinizing the squiggled lines that represent the Walls around the human territory, illustrations of giants closing in all around them.

It used to terrify him; now, he just thinks of Titans as yet another coordinate on a giant battlefield, with the edges of paper mere temporary barriers from the rest of the world.

The moment is unexpectedly blissful, and within a few minutes, Armin stops feeling the need to act as though this is an indulgence he’s permitting Marco.

The real answer to Marco’s question—the thing that goes along with Jean’s need for praise and Marco’s love of hair—is Armin’s wish to daydream.

His eyes start to droop as he allows himself to let go of his reservations. His body relaxes, and he slouches forward slightly.

Marco pushes the chair closer to the desk so that Armin can rest his chin in one hand, and then continues with his ministrations wordlessly.

All too soon, Armin feels the motions of Marco’s fingers cease, and he realizes that the braid is complete. Unexpected disappointment floods him, until Marco asks plaintively, “Can I do a regular one now?” It’s as though the thought of ending this quiet interlude hasn’t even crossed his mind.

Armin hums sleepily, privately pleased, and he lets his eyes finally close as Marco promptly unbraids the hair to start over again.

It lasts for what seems like hours. Slowly, Armin starts to become fascinated by how each style is woven together and anchored in different areas on the head. 

It sounds like Marco is also in a trancelike state of calm, his breathing as even as the motions of his hands, until Armin blurts out a sudden thought. 

“Did you know that braids used to be symbolic?” 

He feels Marco start, confirming the fact that the comfortable silence has indeed stretched for quite a long time.

“Symbolic how?” Marco replies, sounding immediately intrigued as he continues to weave a tight braid that starts from the side this time. The tone reminds Armin of their classroom lessons as cadets—that openly curious response to things that Marco doesn’t know anything about.

“Mm, if I remember correctly,” Armin replies, stifling a yawn, “it pertains to battle accomplishments, secrets, and sometimes ceremonial rituals. I think I found that somewhere in a book that was banned in my grandpa’s library.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Marco remarks knowingly. Armin’s been telling him “forbidden” fragmented stories about human history since their first night in the barracks, terrified to the core. Then, he unexpectedly adds, “It’s fitting.”

“How so?” Armin asks with interest, resisting the urge to turn his head and meet Marco’s perceptive dark eyes.

“Well,” he starts, halfway finished with the braid, “if it has to do with secrets, it’s fitting.” He doesn’t explain further, but Armin knows he means. 

It’s the unraveling of his own secrets with the tight weaving together of a braid, the luxury of daydreaming in private, with Marco there to protect him.

“There!” Marco concludes excitedly, sounding immensely pleased as he steps back. “That’s definitely the best one. It keeps it all in place, so you don’t have to worry about it coming undone.”

Armin immediately reaches up to run ginger, curious fingertips over the hairstyle, and he’s surprised to find that it’s braided tightly against his scalp, thick and perfectly even from the crown of his head right down the back.

“Do you have an fastener?” he asks, finally turning his head to look up at Marco as he pinches the end of the braid to prevent it from coming undone.

Marco, unsurprisingly, already has several leather strips tied and ready to go around his wrist.

“Don’t you want to see it first?” Marco asks, eyebrows raised in shock as he offers Armin one of the leather strips. “Before you decide to keep it in?”

“No,” Armin replies succinctly, neatly tying the fastener into place with an elaborate knot. “I trust you... and the judgment of your seven sisters.”

To Armin’s surprise, though, the expression that crosses Marco’s face is far more emotional than he’s expecting.

“You know I trust you,” Armin repeats more seriously, almost impatient at Marco’s strange display of surprise at the statement.

“I know,” Marco replies quietly after a moment. “I know you trust me _there_ ,” he says, pointing at the map, before slowly making his way around to lean against the edge of the desk. He leans over, not looking at Armin now, squinting at the shapes of the Walls and Titan illustrations. 

Armin studies him as Marco studies the map, probably unconscious of the fact that he looks so vulnerable. He’s got those same freckles smattered across his nose and cheeks he’s had for years, dark intelligent eyes, and he’s nibbling at his lip like he does when he’s deep in thought. 

They’ve been friends for years, but it’s right now, in this moment, that Armin realizes Marco doubts he’s trusted anywhere besides the battlefield.

“I trust you inside these walls, too,” he corrects softly, reaching out to rest his hand against Marco’s thigh. “You should know that by now.”

“I’m a slow learner,” Marco immediately replies, lifting his eyes to meet Armin’s, a small half-smile gracing his lips.

Armin simply raises a skeptical eyebrow to communicate exactly what he thinks of that statement, and Marco chuckles.

“Stand up,” Armin instructs suddenly, sliding his chair back with a loud, startling screech against the oiled wood floor. He reaches up into his hair, taking out the tie much to Marco’s obvious disappointment, but then he holds out his hand. “Come here.”

Marco’s eyes widen, obviously taken off guard as Armin spreads his knees apart, waiting. He does as requested after a moment, though, taking a few steps forward, as if unsure of where he’s meant to stand.

Armin reaches out with a confidence he would have thought impossible only four years ago, passing his index finger through the thick leather thigh strap of Marco’s ODM gear and pulling him forward.

The hiccupped sound of surprise galvanizes Armin forward as he situates Marco between his legs, unfastening the buckle and leather flaps of the gear, pushing them out of the way before pressing his mouth shamelessly against the front of Marco’s pants.

A gurgle of sound immediately erupts from Marco’s throat, before he breathes in sharply. “You don’t have to—”

Armin pulls back, lifting his eyes to meet Marco’s shocked expression. “Obviously I don’t _have_ to,” he interjects, wrapping a strong hand around Marco’s hip. “But do you want me to?”

Marco hisses slightly as Armin gives a reassuring, gentle squeeze, patiently waiting for the answer.

The last—and only—time Armin has pleasured Marco with his mouth was that fateful first afternoon. All of them have been somewhat hesitant, but there’s certainly been other times.

“Yes,” he croaks, almost endearingly taken off guard by the blunt offer, “but... when I asked if I could b-braid your hair, I didn’t expect...”

Armin places a soothing hand over Marco’s twining their fingers, before guiding it to his head. “Braid it again afterwards?” he asks simply.

Marco’s fingers immediately comb through the strands, and he groans in a way that makes Armin’s own cock stir.

“Uh huh,” he slurs, tightening his grip and letting out a shuddery breath.

Marco has no idea how attractive he is when he gets like this, a fact that only makes it all the more alluring.

Armin feels almost naked since he’s not wearing his ODM gear today, given that technically he’s supposed to be relaxing since they’ve had a rather trying time in the field lately (if anyone knew he’d decided to “relax” in his office with maps, he’d probably he thrown over Mikasa’s shoulder and whisked away with ease). But now it’s a strangely welcome sensation as he divests Marco of his own gear.

He presses his lips against the front of Marco’s pants shamelessly again, mouthing at the hardness that’s already present, and Marco moans loudly, his fingers immediately tightening almost painfully in Armin’s hair.

“Love your hair,” he slurs guilelessly, obviously shedding any semblance of self-preservation he may have had left as he starts to pant. “Armin...” 

Armin’s breath catches as Marco’s hips twitch, and he gasps as Marco practically pitches forward to bury his nose in Armin’s hair. He’s so desperate to inhale—to smell and taste—so unrehearsed and practically uncoordinated in his efforts, that it makes heat immediately begin to coil in Armin’s body.

Marco is rarely out of control like this. While no one would say he has ironclad stoicism, he’s definitely unerringly stalwart in how he conducts himself.

As he rights himself again, blushing now like a teenager, Armin doesn’t waste time or sentiment as he unfastens Marco’s pants and immediately darts his tongue out to lick at the tip of his cock.

Marco’s hips buck wildly, and they jerk forward with such force that Armin gags in surprise.

“I’m sorry!” Marco exclaims, immediately moving to pull back and releasing his grip in Armin’s hair, obviously mortified. “I didn’t mean— _oh god_ —”

Armin tows him back in with a strong grip, guiding Marco’s hand back up into his hair.

“Pull it if you want,” he grunts, and then slides his mouth completely over Marco’s cock, using one hand to push back the foreskin and the other to grip Marco’s thigh tightly.

The strangled sharp noise Marco lets out is reminiscent of how cadets sound the first time they shoot off a deafening smoke signal.

But he doesn’t pull away again, and after gathering some modicum of self-awareness, lets out a loud, raw moan as he tugs at Armin’s hair roughly.

“Oh god, oh _god_ ,” is all he can mumble, repeating it like a mantra, almost sobbing, with only a few bobs of Armin’s head. 

Armin takes him in deep, working his tongue expertly along the underside of the head as he lets Marco’s cock hit the back of his throat.

The grip of Marco’s fingers in his hair becomes so tight, it borders on painful; but it’s an exquisite sting, because every time those fingers tug, Armin can feel more of Marco’s self control fall away.

Soon enough, Armin can feel Marco start to tremble with an imminent orgasm, and he holds him in place, squeezing his thigh to let him know it’s okay to stay.

A scream rips its way out of Marco’s mouth as he comes, his body practically doubling over as his cock pulses a few times and the taste of come hits Armin’s tongue.

He usually doesn’t let his lovers release into his mouth, but with Marco, it’s different.

“Fuck,” Marco gasps, slumping back and trying to regain his balance as his cock slips from Armin’s mouth sloppily. “God.” He immediately looks up in shock, searching Armin’s face wildly. “I didn’t mean to... was I supposed to...”

Armin reaches out to grab Marco’s hand, pulling him forward as he regains his balance, and then kisses his hip in a rare, outwardly affectionate motion. 

“Do you think I would have let you if I didn’t want you to?” he asks simply.

That pushes Marco into thoughtful silence, since the answer is obvious. Then, there’s a quiet wry laugh, and Marco sighs. “No,” he replies conclusively.

Armin helps him clean up rudimentarily, and then Marco looks a little lost, perched on the edge of the desk with his pants only halfway fastened, staring at Armin curiously.

“So,” Armin says, meeting Marco’s eyes with a serious expression, “are you going to braid it properly for me? I can’t have it flapping around in the wind like it has been when I’m up on top of the Walls.”

The look that crosses Marco’s face is affectionate, acutely intimate, and he gives a radiant smile; he’s still so boyish in his face, it’s sometimes like a glimpse into the past.

“You want the fishtail again?”

“Sure,” Armin agrees, settling back into his chair, “I have the fastener ready.”

When Armin finally leaves his office some time later with Marco behind, hair braided neatly and held in place, they unexpectedly encounter Jean in the corridor.

He immediately grins as when he catches sight of Armin, rolling his eyes at Marco. “Nice braid, _Armina_ ,” he teases.

Armin doesn’t even need to respond, leaving Jean to sputter in confusion and outrage after Marco elbows him sharply in the side.

“Glad you like it,” he retorts over his shoulder.

He leaves it braided for the rest of the day.


End file.
